


Then You Can Lie Down Forlorn

by highfantastical



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, abdication crisis, clothes pr0n
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-26
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:28:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highfantastical/pseuds/highfantastical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America comes to see England following the abdication crisis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** Please note, part I is set during a fox-hunt. Which I am very much against IRL, but this is, you know, 1936. (And also not real!) Please don't read if it will distress you - there's nothing graphic though, it's just the setting. (Mainly because England would look so sweet in hunting pinks and so forth.)

_Boxing Day, December, 1936: 'Hark the Herald Angels sing, / Mrs Simpson's pinched our King'_

America pulled up at the verge and jumped out of the car: from here, he'd have to go on foot. The roads were full of ruts and sticky dark mud, and he certainly wasn't going to trust his neck to some English horse. But he could already hear the hounds crying and the jingle of tack – he'd caught them up, all right. Thank goodness: he didn't want to spend the whole day chasing England round the icy countryside, while England chased some poor benighted fox. Cars were faster than horses – that was why America liked them, even though you couldn't jump a car over a hedge.

It sounded like – yes, they'd checked at that covert over there, only three fields away. America jogged along beside the hedge, hoping they wouldn't move off again before he got there, watching his white breath in the air. He hoped England wouldn't be _too_ mad. After all, America didn't have to come and commiserate. He wasn't obliged to. And it certainly wasn't his fault if England's erstwhile boss had fallen for someone unsuitable and refused to Do The Decent Thing by putting his nation first. If only he could be sure that England would take a rational view of things, and appreciate that it was really jolly decent of America to come all this way, just to say, 'Sorry, old thing. Didn't know it was going to end like that. You losing your king.'

He strolled round the covert and – yes. There was England, mounted on a dancing grey. In the thin wintry sun, his black top-hat and the fair hair blowing out beneath it made a gleaming picture of contrasts, dark against bright. "England," America called, and England's head snapped round, eyes going wide.

"America," he said flatly. "What a surprise. Don't think me rude, but I am rather busy today. Perhaps another time."

"Look – England. Don't be silly. I've come a long way, you know. Can't you come back with me to your place? I think we should, you know, talk. About the – the king thing."

"The _king thing_," England repeated. "I suppose you mean the abdication of my monarch. Cozened into it by the – _wiles_ of one of your horrible citizens. As if I didn't have enough to worry about without him l-leaving me." He lifted his chin. "I don't wish to discuss it with you, America."

America could see him trembling – with rage, or with the cold, or perhaps both – inside his pink coat. He felt a highly reluctant twinge of pity. "I didn't arrange it," he protested. "It was nothing to do with me! I'm still really busy with the federal relief stuff. Oh, come on – it's freezing out here. You can't possibly be enjoying this. Don't go with them when they move off again, come back with me. We can have some revolting tea and talk it over."

England fiddled with his white stock. America could almost see the wheels turning in his head. "I'm not coming – not now," he said eventually. "But I'll lunch with you on Monday, if you really want. Somewhere in Town, if you can bring yourself to behave decently."

"Okay, great! I _knew_ you'd agree to see me. We can go the Ritz! I like the Ritz."

"Of course you do. What's wrong with somewhere a bit quieter?" England was frowning, but before he could insist on some dreary hole – what was _wrong_ with the Ritz? In America's opinion, London needed more large shiny hotels – the hounds were casting. England nodded curtly to America and turned his horse, going into a seamless trot that even America couldn't help admiring, then a smooth canter. The stragglers followed him, streaming off from the covert into the weak sunlight. America shivered.

When he couldn't see them anymore, only hear their characteristic sounds on the wind, he trudged back to his car, trying not to think about the fact that he'd have all tomorrow to get through – Sunday in England, which was unlikely to be exciting – before the promised lunch. If England even turned up for it, he thought. If he didn't break his silly little neck cavorting about in the mud with that devil horse. Cars were safer, really, America thought. You could turn them off. He shut his mind against the picture of England and the horse, and executed a neat turn in the lane. Just as good as trotting, he thought, if not better.


	2. Chapter 2

America was wearing a beautiful new suit that he'd gone out and bought that morning. He had been so pleased to see the shops open again – after that interminable Sunday – that he'd felt the need to celebrate. He thought England would probably call the suit 'loud', but America called it beautiful and _pitied_ anyone who failed to appreciate its greatness. And that was what he would say to England, when England arrived and began stating, at length, his objections to America's attire.

Only – England didn't arrive. After half an hour, America left the restaurant: he went into the foyer and asked whether a message had been 'phoned through for him – name of Arthur Kirkland, sending apologies? But there was nothing. America went reluctantly back to his table, ordering a Gin and It, because that was such a British drink – he wanted to see England's face, when England saw him drinking it.

The lights in this place were really far too bright – where _was_ England? Unpunctuality wasn't characteristic of him. _America_ had managed to get there on time, and he was often late for things, but he'd known England would be absolutely furious if he were late today. Surely England wouldn't really have ditched him without warning, not when he'd agreed to come. After another half an hour, America began – furious with himself – to worry. Or perhaps, to be strictly accurate, he could no longer deny even to himself that worrying was what he was doing.

After a third half an hour, he shrugged into his coat and left. He walked to his car: not hurrying, but conscious all the time that he wasn't hurrying, that he was quite calm, thank you very much.

As the engine leapt into life, he knew that he did want to hurry. To drive as fast as he could and find out what had happened to England, because while England had many (very many) faults, he was usually – except when drunk – remarkably insistent upon the minor courtesies of life, such as being on time for things. Or informing the person you were meeting if, for some reason, you couldn't make it. (America ought to know how much England cared about such things: he'd enraged him often enough by failing to _behave like a civilised being_.)

So something was probably wrong – although perhaps England was only drunk. Conjuring up for himself the amusing and familiar image of England when legless, America put his foot down hard on the gas, shooting off down St James's and careering round Pall Mall.

He knew the way to England's house, without having to think about it – the car seemed, like England's pack of hounds, to have found a scent.

~*~

By the time he got there, it had begun to rain. Typical England, he thought, you never get decent weather for two days running. The house looked dark and unappealing under the dripping skies: America hoped that England hadn't got drunk enough to let all the fires go out, but it looked as though he might have done.

He banged on the door for a bit, but gave up much sooner than he would have done if it hadn't been so wet, and fished out from an inner pocket the illicit key which was generally used only when he was transporting England home, on those occasions when he was far too drunk either to walk on his own or to deal with such trivial details as keys and locks. France had a key, too. America was never quite sure whether England knew that they had them, or not: perhaps he forgot about them every time, or perhaps he was turning a blind eye, aware that he'd be absolutely screwed if there was no one to squire him home.

America opened the door and went in. There were no sounds of drunken carousing – no sounds at all, he thought for a moment. But, no – there _was_ something, a sound that came from deep inside the house, so that he couldn't identify it. He stalked along the passages and up the stairs, but the sound seemed to have stopped: England's bedroom was only a corridor away, though, so he might as well have a look, just to make sure that nothing awful had happened. Public service to the English nation, and all that.


	3. Chapter 3

America opened the door, and – England _was_ there.

The blankets and the creased sheet were tossed back, as if he'd pushed them away – _impatiently, fretfully_, America thought. His linen nightshirt was rumpled; his face damp with sweat. As America stepped into the room, cautious and quiet, England started to cough again.

His narrow body jerked against the bed, and America said sharply, "What's _wrong_ with you? Should I get a doctor?" He hovered between door and bed for a long moment, absurdly aware of the loud rain against the windows, even though the drapes were still drawn, and England's coughing was much _louder_ than the rain.

England's attention seemed, not unreasonably, to be focused on continuing to get enough air, rather than on answering America. But America had to do something. He couldn't let anyone – _not even England_ – choke to death right in front of him: it would be terribly unheroic. England couldn't tell him what to do, or tell him that he was doing whatever-it-was in some way that was simply wrong – why? Because England said so – and so America made up his mind all in an instant.

He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the untidy bed, right up close next to England. He ignored England's glare, which somehow managed to make itself felt even through the coughing, and slid his arm under the bony convulsing shoulders. He pulled England upright and propped him, for a moment, against his own body – feeling England's chest move, as England _heaved_ with the cough and sucked at the air – and with his other hand he pummelled the flattened pillows into a rough heap, and settled England back against them in what was clearly a much better position for breathing.

There was a glass, half-filled with water, sitting abandoned on the nightstand, so he held it to England's colourless lips and said, "Sip it. Come on, England – do what I say, for once in your life, can't you? You sound awful." And England, to America's surely-eternal astonishment, just did exactly what he said, and sipped at the water and then lay back limply – the coughing apparently quelled for the time being, thanks to America's wonderful healing ministrations.

America put down the glass and said, "Have you been like this all night? Don't you think you ought to see a doctor?" He nobly refrained from remarking that England had left _him_ sitting on his own in the Ritz for nearly two hours. He thought it would be more tactful not to mention it just then.

England shook his head. "It's just a cold," he croaked. "I don't need a doctor for a cold, stupid."

"But – look at yourself! Colds are – well, the sniffles – and runny noses – you could hardly even breathe when I got here."

"Oh, go away," England said crossly. "I think I can tell whether it's a cold or not, thank you, America. They're always like this, these days. I'm used to it, and idiotic fussing doesn't _help_, actually."

"What do you mean – they're always like this? What's that supposed to mean?" England fixed a green glare on him. America decided that he was not daunted by the glare, anymore than he was by England's obvious ingratitude for healing ministrations. He would press on, disregarding the glare utterly. "Is it your economy? Mine's gone down the pan too and it hasn't affected _me_ this way."

"Well, you're – you're younger," England said. "As you always take such bloody great pains to remind me. It's invigorated you, or something similarly hideous – it hasn't – sapped you." And he closed his eyes.

There was a sharp sort of feeling in America's throat. He'd almost rather have England drunk than – tired. It was always odd when the usual, casual hostilities – which were almost, sometimes friendly – had to be suspended. Things got horribly complicated, and his confidence in being able to manage anything, any situation at all – as befitted a hero – got tarnished, even dented.

This was one of those occasions, he felt sure already: he didn't know what to do, somehow. What did England need? He thought, as perhaps in some ways he had always thought, that what England probably needed was exactly what he couldn't give.


End file.
